He flipped the dim kitchen light off, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Outside, a beam of moonlight cut a path, catching Preacher’s pickup and something else, his heart sinking as he saw them. Two men, guns drawn, creeping in the distance.
“Baby?” Memphis called again, anxiety leaching into his voice.
“Memphis, get your boots on. Now.”
To his credit, Memphis didn’t argue or panic. He didn’t even hesitate. They’d been training for this for the last week, making a plan so when, or if, the time came for them to fight, Memphis didn’t freeze.
Memphis joined him in the kitchen, boots and jacket on, gun in hand, carrying Preacher’s boots as well. “What’s happening?” he asked, a slight tinge of panic in his voice, which was barely above a whisper.
Preacher pushed his feet into his boots, grateful they were both dressed for once, then took the weapon, thumbing off the safety and chambering a round. Low growls started coming from the dogs who were now pacing, sensing Preacher’s and Memphis’s change in mood. Preacher nodded towards the window and Memphis blanched as he saw the two men silhouetted against the low light. “How?”
“That’s a question for another time. Right now, all that matters is getting us the fuck out of here safely. Grab the shotgun in the closet and bring it to me. Shells, too.”
“Aren’t we safer in here?” Memphis asked.
“Yeah, but for how long? And if they know we’re here, so will others. We need to get out.”
“How, though?”
Preacher fixed him with a patient stare. “Memphis, baby. Please, go get the shotgun.”
The light in Memphis’s eyes was dull once more. But he did as Preacher asked.
“Bo, Luke. Heel.”
The boys were at his side in an instant. Memphis set the shotgun on the counter as well as the extra ammo they’d picked up in town a week ago. Preacher’s heart thudded heavy behind his ribs as he weighed his options.
On the upside, the truck was just outside and they had the element of surprise. If their attackers didn’t think to disable it, they could use it to get the hell out of there. But the men were too close to make a direct run for it, and there was nothing to put a wall of protection between them if they sprinted for the car. It would turn into a firefight, and while the nine millimeter might provide some kind of cover, the shotgun was strictly a one off.
Preacher went to the living room and peeled back the rug hiding the trap door, and then he unlocked the front door, opening it just enough so the latch wasn’t closed, but so that it still appeared closed. He had a plan, but it was only going to work if these two men were idiots and approached together from the front. There was no back door. Anybody who’d cased the place probably assumed that meant there was only one way in or out. Hopefully, that also meant they both decided to come from the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Memphis whispered, blue eyes wide. “You can’t go out there.”
“Relax, baby. I’m not. They don’t know we see them coming. The only thing we have going for us is the element of surprise.” He threw Memphis the truck keys and tucked the nine millimeter in Memphis’s sweatpants pocket. “When I say so, open the hatch, quietly. Get to the truck as fast as you can and get the engine turned over.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
Preacher gave him a slight smile. “I really hope not.”
Memphis didn’t appear to find his attempt at humor funny. “What about the gunmen? Won’t they shoot me when I make a run for the truck?”
Preacher looked at the two German Shepherds, so alert they were vibrating. “No, they’re going to be far too busy to worry about you.”
Preacher peeked through the small window, watching as the two men slowed just beyond the spiral staircase, seeming to have some kind of argument, though silently. He didn’t recognize either men. They were most likely freelance. Hopefully, not professionals, but opportunists. That would be better for Memphis. Freelancers had no skin in the game. If it came down to money or living, they’d likely choose living. They were expecting to find two men sleeping in opposite rooms, but, first, they had to make it past a solid steel door.
They’d never get the chance. Preacher got Memphis’s attention, gesturing for him to quietly open the hatch, but then wait. Memphis complied, face pale, keys gripped in his fingers, handgun causing his sweats to sag on one side. For a split second, there was only silence and the ragged sound of their breathing and the boys’ excited panting.
When the men were halfway up the spiral staircase, Preacher swung the door open. “Attack!”
The boys launched in tandem, hitting the men with the force of a battering ram, sending all four of them tumbling down the steps.
“Go, now.”
Preacher slammed the door shut and locked it as Memphis dropped through the hole. Preacher snatched the shotgun and shells, free falling out of the hatch just in time to see Memphis struggling to open the truck door. His pulse shot up, and he rushed towards the vehicle, adrenaline pounding through him as he saw the door give and Memphis slide behind the wheel, turning over the engine.
The sounds of snarls and high-pitched screams punctuated the otherwise eerily quiet night, sounding like something out of a horror movie. The boys wouldn’t relent until Preacher gave the command, and the men were far too worried about fending off teeth and claws than the two of them making their escape.
Preacher went to the driver’s side, forcing Memphis out of the way as he shoved the truck into reverse, tires crunching under ice as he skidded to the side where a ball of skin and fur rolled around in the dirty snow. “Door!”
